Perhaps the reason is too plain,
Thou triest to starve the tuneful train,

Of potent verse afraid !
And yet I row,

in all my time, I've not beheld a single rhyme

That ever spoiled thy trade.

I've often read those pious whims-
John Wesley's sweet damnation hymns,

That chant of heavenly riches.
What have they done ?—those heavenly strains,
Devoutly squeezed from canting brains,

But filled John's earthly breeches ?

There's not a shoe-black in the land,
So humbly at the world's command,

As thy old cloven foot;
Like lightning dost thou fly, when called,
And yet no pickpocket's so mauled

As thou, O Prince of Soot!

What thousands, hourly bent on sin,
With supplication call thee in,

To aid them to pursue it;
Yet, when detected, with a lie
Ripe at their fingers' ends, they cry,

“The Devil made me do it."

Behold the fortunes that are made,
By men through rouguish tricks in trade,

Yet all to thee are owing-
And though we meet it every day,
The sneaking rascals dare not say,

This is the Devil's doing.

As to thy company,

I'm

sure,
No man can shun thee on that score;

The very best is thine:
With kings, queens, ministers of state,
Lords, ladies, I have seen thee great,

And many a grave divine.

I'm sorely grieved at times to find,
The very instant thou art kind,

Some people so uncivil,
When aught offends, with face awry,
With base ingratitude to cry,

"I wish it to the Devil."

Hath some poor blockhead got a wife,
To be the torment of his life,

By one eternal yell-
The fellow cries out coarsely, “Zounds,
I'd give this moment twenty pounds

To see the jade in hell."

Should Heaven their prayers so ardent grant,
Thou never company wouldst want

To make thee downright mad;
For, mind me, in their wishing mood,
They never offer thee what 's good,

But every thing that 's bad.

My honest anger boils to view
A sniffling, long-faced, canting crew,

So much thy humble debtors,
Rusbing, on Sundays, one and all,
With desperate prayers thy head to maul,

And thus abuse their betters.

To seize one day in every week,
On thee their black abuse to wreak,

By whom their souls are fed
Each minute of the other six,
With every joy that heart can fix,

Is impudence indeed!

Blushing I own thy pleasing art
Hath oft seduced my vagrant heart,

And led my steps to joy-
The charms of beauty have been mine;
And let me call the merit thine,

Who broughtst the lovely toy.

Since truth must out-I seldom knew
What’t was high pleasure to pursue,
Till thou hadst won my

heart-
So social were we both together,
And beat the hoof in every weather,

I never wished to part.

Yet when a child-good Lord! I thought That thou a pair of horns hadst got,

With eyes like saucers staring! And then a pair of ears so stout, A monstrous tail and hairy snout,

With claws beyond comparing.

a

Taught to avoid the paths of evil,
By day I used to dread the devil,

And trembling when 't was night,
Methought I saw thy horns and ears,
They sung or whistled to my fears,

And ran to chase my fright.

And every night I went to bed,
I sweated with a constant dread,

And crept beneath the rug;
There panting, thought that in my sleep
Thou slyly in the dark wouldst creep,

And eat me, though so snug.

A haberdasher's shop is thine,
With sins of all sorts, coarse and fine,

To suit both man and maid:
Thy wares they buy, with open eyes;
How cruel then, with constant cries,

To vilify thy trade!

To speak the truth, indeed, I'm loath-
Life's deemed a mawkish dish of broth,

Without thy aid, old sweeper;
So mawkish, few will put it down,
Even from the cottage to the crown,

Without thy salt and pepper.

O Satan, whatsoever geer,
Thy Proteus form shall choose to wear,

Black, red, or blue, or yellow;
Whatever hypocrites may say,
They think thee (trust my honest lay)

A most bewitching fellow.

'Tis ordered (to deaf ears, alas !)
To praise the bridge o'er which we pass •

Yet often I discover
A numerous band who daily make
An easy bridge of thy poor back,

And damn it when they 're over.

Why art thou, then, with cup in hand,
Obsequious to a graceless band,

Whose souls are scarce worth taking;
O prince, pursue but my advice,
I'll teach your highness in a trice

To set them all a quaking.

Plays, operas, masquerades, destroy:
Lock up each charming fille de joie ;

Give race-horses the glander-
The dice-box break, and burn each card-
Let virtue be its own reward,

And gag the mouth of slander;

In one week's time, I 'll lay my life, There's not a man, nor maid, nor wife,

That will not glad agree, If thou will charm 'em as before, To show their nose at church no more,

But quit their God for thee.

'Tis now full time my ode should end :
And now I tell thee like a friend,

Howe'er the world may scout thee;
Thy ways are all so wondrous winning,
And folks so very fond of sinning,

They can not do without thee.

THE KING OF SPAIN AND THE HORSE.

PETER PINDAR,

In seventeen hundred seventy-eight,

The rich, the proud, the potent King of Spain,
Whose ancestors sent forth their troops to smite

The peaceful natives of the western main,
With faggots and the blood-delighting sword,
To play the devil, to oblige the Lord !
For hunting, roasting heretics, and boiling,
Baking and barbecuing, frying, broiling,

Was thought Heaven's cause amazingly to further;
For which most pious reason, hard to work,
They went, with gun and dagger, knife and fork,

To charm the God of mercy with their murther!

I say, this King, in seventy-eight surveyed,
In tapestry so rich, portrayed,

A horse with stirrups, crupper, bridle, saddle:
Within the stirrup, lo, the monarch tried
To fix his foot the palfry to bestride;

In vain 1-he could not o'er the palfiy straddle!
Stiff as a Turk, the beast of yarn remained,
And every effort of the King disdained,
Who, 'midst his labors, to the ground was tumbled,
And greatly mortified, as well as humbled.
Prodigious was the struggle of the day,
The horse attempted not to run away;

At which the poor-chafed monarch now 'gan grin,
And swore by every saint and holy martyr,
He would not yield the traitor quarter,

Until he got possession of his skin.